


an interrupting snake

by graywhatsit



Category: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Everyone is a dumbass, Flirting, Fluff, Misunderstandings, Other, Pining, actor is a jackass, attempts at humor, like one braincell MAYBE, this is dumb and cliched romcom action don’t judge me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:01:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26868580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywhatsit/pseuds/graywhatsit
Summary: Damien and his friend are kind of, sort of, moving forward in their relationship.Or, they would, if Mark wouldleave them alone for a single second.
Relationships: Damien | The Mayor/Y/N | The District Attorney (Who Killed Markiplier?)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 55





	an interrupting snake

Damien is annoyed.

Damien doesn’t really _get_ annoyed, as such. He knows he has a temper, sure— it’s an unfortunate family trait, and both he and Celine have it— but he’s more likely to let things slide if he can help it. He doesn’t want to hurt others, with his words or his actions. A little inconvenience or hardship isn’t worth blowing up over.

When that instance is repeated, however...

And when it really, truly presses one of his buttons...

He should explain.

It’s no secret that he likes them. Why wouldn’t he? They’re incredible friends, and he looks forward to seeing them every day, whether in or out of class. Their charms are too numerous for him to resist.

And yes, he feels something else alongside their powerful friendship. He has for some time, and he hasn’t really tried to keep it hidden.

For all of his political aspirations, Damien’s remarkably terrible about keeping his emotions hidden, and he always has been.

It isn’t like people don’t know. Hell, he’s almost certain _they_ know, terrifying as the thought may be.

If they do, it’s comforting to know they don’t mind.

Well, he says don’t mind. It’s more like actively encourage without moving forward into confession on either end— if they reciprocate, that is. It’s hard to tell, with their strange dance.

He takes that first step.

He’d say, if asked later, that it took courage, and a lot of consideration, and that it was deliberate, but... that’s very untrue.

It happens by accident. Ridiculous, thoughtless accident.

* * *

“Can you believe that?” They throw down their pencil, all righteous indignation. It bounces off their notes and skitters into his workspace. “This man asks me _directly_ , in class, and when I give him an answer he doesn’t like— one that’s _true_ , might I add— he acts as though I told him about men on Mars! Why don’t we compare our last essay grades and see who knows what they’re talking about, James?”

Damien, amused, pushes the pencil back in their direction. “Did you _ask_ him that, or..?”

“No,” they admit, “but I was damn close. I didn’t get a chance— but then! Then, he says, when he goes back to his pretty-boy friends— who you know spend half the class talking, as if any of that is equal to actual work, or intelligence— ‘well, everyone makes mistakes’. I’d sooner say his _placement_ was a mistake!”

“Jackass.” Still, he nudges them with a gentle foot— the library isn’t the place for a tirade, however correct it is.

“Right?” They heave a sigh, slumping back in their chair. “I don’t work this hard to be treated like that.”

“And you don’t deserve to be,” he replies, firmly. “I’ve seen your marks— you’re five times brighter than all of them could ever hope to be combined. And you’re _ten_ times as pretty.”

He doesn’t think about it until they don’t respond for a solid few seconds. He played his hand. They know, they—

They smile at him when he looks up, pleased and a little surprised. “You think so, huh?”

“Well.” He swallows. The library is suddenly very warm. “Historically, I’m terrible at math. A million times each, maybe.”

_Why am I still talking?!_

Their smile only grows, though, eyes darting down and to the side, embarrassed. “You know, I’m not so good at math, myself, but...”

Something very soft and warm brushes his hand— theirs, reaching across the table, slight and tentative.

“If you say that’s correct, who am I to argue?” They look back at him. “Thank you, Damien.”

They don’t move their hand, and he doesn’t move away, either.

* * *

And after that...

They’re kind of off to the races.

It isn’t all the time. It isn’t even blatant, like some flirtations he’s seen, verging on improper for the public. It’s just... present. Their friendship, but something extra.

It has never been unusual for them to bring him a snack after a long day of hard work— but then they become homemade, or, sneakily— excitingly!— have a small heart on the wrapper.

Sitting close is wonderful and even necessary to share a book— it isn’t necessary to scoot in until they’re a pleasant warmth against his side, a soft pressure of head and hair against his shoulder to lean in to see what he’s pointing at, his arm around their shoulders when it inevitably falls asleep between them.

He’s never been shy of extolling their virtues, either, especially in the face of their self-doubt— but that doesn’t require him to hold their hand and make sure they look him in the eye as he calls them dearest.

It’s awkward and thrilling and exciting, and it becomes that but also, somehow, comfortably so, a small smile on his face that only grows when he sees a matching one on theirs.

Nothing happens, of course. It’s simply growing affection, acknowledgement without confession. He isn’t ready for that, not even if they suspect him— and they might be in the same boat. It’s a comfortable and careful dance, the two of them trading words and glances and actions without tripping into the whole messy business of saying it out loud.

And then Mark shows up.

Well. He was already in town, but as his run in a certain production wraps up, he decides that Damien needs some company while at university.

Company meaning incredible annoyance and distraction. Bastard.

At least, in meeting his friend, he watches himself. During introductions, he shakes hands warmly, smiles, and doesn’t try to butt in when more academic topics crop up. He just watches them talk, seemingly content in having the company, amused when his friend leans into Damien’s space and stays there. He doesn’t comment at all.

“Why can’t you be so well behaved all of the time?” Damien asks when they part ways.

“I’m only as well behaved as the company deserves, Dames.” Mark holds his head high, hands in his pockets to give him an air of relaxed regality. Mostly, it makes him look like an arrogant ass— par for the course. “And your friend, there... they deserved nothing but my best.”

It’s odd, but... there’s something about that he doesn’t quite trust. “And I, one of your oldest friends, don’t?”

Mark gives him a look, half-lidded and down his nose. “What do you think?”

He doesn’t look half as regal spluttering and laughing, dodging Damien’s attempts to get an arm around his neck. Damien takes small victories where he can get them.

Mark continues to accompany them later on, and Damien wouldn’t mind that, except...

Well.

He’s always _right there_.

* * *

“It’s hot.”

Mark turns to look at them, bemused. “You’re wearing a sweater in May, of course it’s hot. Why did you even wear a sweater?”

They give him an equally-strange glance. “I always wear sweaters. That’s all I wear.”

“They only wear sweaters, Mark,” Damien confirms with a solemn nod. “Sleep in them, eat in them, bathe in them— hey!”

He squirms away, grinning, and they pull their elbow back.

Mark’s eyes dart between them, narrowed. “You just... that’s all? Even in summer? Surely you have an undershirt, or something.”

“Nope.” They lift up a hand to wipe at their forehead. “Seriously, though, we should get out of the sun, or I’m really going to melt.”

Leaving Mark to his mental calculations— Damien went through them a long time ago and decided to simply just not question their preferences— Damien scouts ahead, shielding his eyes. “Look, there’s a bench, right in the shade. We have time before we need to be anywhere, so maybe we can take a rest.”

“Thank god,” his friend mutters, and makes a beeline directly for it.

They all but collapse on it when they arrive, with a long sigh of relief. “Much better! Good idea, Damien.”

He huffs a laugh. “Well, I have been known to come up with one or two,” he jokes. “Scoot over, greedy. Our legs are tired, too.”

It takes a moment— and a playful glower— but they do.

Just as he’s about to sit, though, Mark—

Mark swoops in. Just moves right into where he was going to settle down beside them, and Mark’s legs knocking into the back of his sends him off balance, falling into the unoccupied, far portion.

“There are far more graceful ways to sit,” Mark comments, smooth and unsurprised, as his friend grins from his other side. “You alright, Dames?”

He has his arms up along the back of the bench. Was that intentional? Unable to keep a frown off his face, Damien mutters, “Yes, I’m fine. No thanks to _you_.”

“My legs were tired, like you said.” Mark gives him an innocent smile. “I just couldn’t take one more step. You’d blame me for that?”

He jostles a little, and his friend gives him an admonishing look. “You could take _one_ more,” they correct,“but we’re here, now, and I don’t want to move. Sure you’re okay, Damien?”

Their eyes are soft, a little concerned, and he smiles as he straightens himself up. “Positive, my dear. He’s done far worse to me.”

“ _I’ve_ done worse to _you_? _You_ put fire ants in my pup tent, once,” Mark replies, scandalized.

(It wasn’t Damien’s fault, entirely. William showed him where to find the ants, after all.)

“Poor thing,” his friend says, and pats him on the shoulder. Their grin betrays their sincerity.

* * *

During summer, things calm a bit.

Classes aren’t really a concern, anymore, after all.

They don’t exactly have a central meeting point, though, and they’re flung to the far corners of the city, but it doesn’t stop them from trying a few times a week. In the interest of fairness, outings are kept simple and free, or at least cheap: typically, a house of theirs, or the beach, if it’s warm.

On one particularly nice day, they camp out in the grounds of Mark’s manor.

(“He has a _manor_?” His friend asked, eyes wide and mouth agape. “A real one? Like a count or a lord or something?”

Damien grimaced. “Don’t let him hear you say that. His head is big enough as-is.”)

Mark reclines on one side of a massive live oak, enjoying the shade and cool breeze with a drink in hand, eyes closed. On the other side, Damien pages through a book absently, not really absorbing the words but skimming.

Out in the sun, just a few feet away, his friend lays in the grass, arms folded behind their head.

Damien’s heard it said that he’s too old for such lazy days. It’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard— who wouldn’t take the time to enjoy a beautiful summer day?

He looks up from his book after some time. He’s read nothing at all— he should just accept that, and so he sets the whole thing aside to stretch his arms.

Mark’s glass rattles behind him, but he doesn’t say a word.

His friend has turned onto their side so he can see their face. They’re calm, peaceful, with closed eyes and a slight smile; lit gold by the sun, cradled in the soft comfort of the grass and their sweater, they’re as beautiful as they’ve ever been, and his heart aches with it.

For as well-managed as the garden is, some weeds still poke through, like the dandelions speckling yellow in the rich green, little buttercups in a slightly deeper shade. One such cluster rests close by his leg, perfect and golden-yellow.

It’s a weed— the gardener might call it a favor that he picks one, rather than threaten to cut him with shears.

It’s happened before.

He doesn’t know if his friend is asleep or not, but with the sight of the flower, the sight of them, the sweet and comfortable opportunity he has, he calls their name.

They slowly blink open their eyes, giving him a warm little smile when they meet his own. “Yes, Damien?” They mumble, all contented, sleepy comfort.

“I have a gift for you,” he replies, and their smile grows.

“For me?” They roll over again, this time on their stomach, to watch him. “How sweet of you! What do you have?”

He should have a hundred more flowers, and better ones than some common weed. But, maybe, they won’t mind. “A flower. I know it isn’t half as pretty as y—“

“Oh, Damien, how thoughtful!”

Mark reaches in and takes it. Plucks it right from his hand.

His hand is empty, outstretched in front of him, and he blinks dumbly at it for a second. “What— Mark!”

“Honestly, Damien, that was very kind of you. Here I thought you were going cold on me, but I should have known better.” Mark slings an arm around him, squishing him into his side.

His drink sloshes when Damien pushes at him, grumbling; when it actually spills over, Mark yelps at the cold.

Out in the grass, his friend cackles, burying their face in their arms.

* * *

He starts to get the feeling that it’s very much intentional, because Mark starts interrupting his friend, too.

* * *

“... Are you doing alright?”

“I am contemplating,” Damien replies, continuing to stare into the middle distance, “my desire to be a politician.”

“Oh, a _light_ afternoon, then,” Mark comments from somewhere behind him.

His friend grumbles; Damien can’t see their face, but he hopes it’s a glare they’re shooting Mark’s way. “You aren’t usually so doubtful, Damien,” they say, warm pressure landing on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

He tilts his head back to see their face. Nothing but kind concern, looking right back down at him. “How am I meant to lead when I can’t say anything important?”

They frown. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I don’t say anything that needs to be said.” It isn’t just confessing— it’s telling his father when he’s had enough of his criticism, it’s telling Mark to back off and stop interrupting his time with his other friend. For his aspirations, he’s appalling at confrontation. “If I can’t tackle something head on now—“

“Hold on.” The hand on him squeezes, just a bit. “I don’t think people are born good at that, Damien. You have to build up to it. Like... start with one of us, maybe. What do you want to say?”

“Ah...” He sits back up, face warming. He is not in the right state of mind for this. “I don’t think that’s going to do it, really.”

Mark sounds closer when he says, “Come, now— surely there’s _something_ you want to say. Let it out.”

A second hand lands on his other shoulder. “Don’t pressure him,” they scold, then, softer, “That’s alright, maybe you don’t. But, if it means anything from me...”

The hands slide down, around, into an embrace, warm arms around his neck, soft breath at the side of his face. His heart pounds— are they really..?

“I think you’ll be _perfect_ , sw—“

“Oh, I just remembered!”

Mark comes around the sofa, all excited and guileless grin, even as those arms slip away. “I do have a get together coming up, Damien— you could practice your speech craft there!”

He could swear he hears a soft sigh behind him. “That is certainly an idea, Mark,” they agree, carefully neutral.

Mark’s smile only grows. It’s arrogant and cocky and _knowing_. “Isn’t it just?”

* * *

They have a waxed paper package in their hands the next time he sees them, and even from his spot behind the butler, he can see a small, nicely decorated heart against the white.

“You made something!”

“I did!” They pull it away when he reaches for it, though. “Ah-ah! No, you can’t eat cookies before noon, what are you thinking?”

He perks up. “They’re cookies?”

His friend blinks, slowly dawning resignation on their face. “I... guess that ruined the surprise, then. How do you do that every time I bring you something?”

Damien shrugs, gesturing further into his home. As they walk, he says, facetiously, “I have my charms. You can’t resist.”

“You’re so full of yourself. Even if you are right.” Their grin falls a bit, and they glance around the hall anxiously. “Speaking of— Mark isn’t here, is he?”

“He’s upstairs.” He frowns. After all of his interruptions, did he really have some kind of scheme? Was he after his friend in some way? “Did he do something to you? If he did, I swear—“

They shake their head to cut him off, eyes wide. “No, no! No, nothing like that, it’s just... he’s _always here_ ,” they finish on a sigh.

Right. They haven’t been alone together since Mark decided to visit. Unfortunately. “You know,” he says, thoughtfully, “we don’t... have to go up and see him. We could stay downstairs. Just us?”

“And your staff,” they add, but their eyes shine. “If he comes down to look for us, we’ll have no excuse— and I don’t want to be rude to him.”

Damien, at this point, would be quite glad to be rude to Mark. That said, if they say so... “Alright, alright. Come on, then.”

Mark, as if cued by some otherworldly being, descends upon the gifted baked goods the moment he sees them. “You made us a gift! Oh, dear, you are the sweetest person I’ve ever met— thank you.”

“No trouble,” they mutter, flustered. They unenthusiastically gesture to the packet set on Damien’s desk. “Go ahead— both of you. That’s what they’re for.”

If he needs to find a bright side, it’s that he needs the help— he can’t eat a full batch of cookies on his own.

He would’ve _tried_ , though, if it meant Mark wouldn’t tear through the drawing on the front.

* * *

He’s busy at schoolwork in late summer, head bowed over notes and books, when he hears something.

“How is the most handsome man in the world doing today?”

Surprised, Damien looks up to find his friend at another desk, watching him. Yes, their eyes gleam with mischief, but their soft little smile and darkened cheeks, their chin resting thoughtfully in their hand, tell a far different story.

Him. They mean him. They called him handsome! They’ve done it before, but—

His face warm, sure he’s grinning like an absolute fool, he says, “I’m fine—“

“I’m doing great, thank you!”

Mark’s boisterousness gets him forcibly removed from the library.

The mood doesn’t really return.

* * *

So, he’s annoyed.

Mark can’t let a moment be a moment, and it’s just made him more anxious to actually say something. Or try to.

So, he made a plan, and now... well, now, he’s going to propose it.

_Propose it_ , god. He does not need more anxiety.

He waits until Mark is striding several good paces ahead, lost in his own self-absorbed world, before he catches his friend with a hand on their arm. “Ah... may I— I mean, could I ask you something? Please?”

“I think you just did,” they joke, grinning, but it falls to seriousness at his own desperate expression. “Yes, yes, of course. Anything.”

“Alright.” Deep breath, and out. “I was wondering— that is, I wanted to know if you might... would you, possibly, join me for a picnic sometime?”

They smile again, bright and enthusiastic. “I’d love to! Do you want me to bring anything? I have some—“

“Please, let me,” he insists. If he’s going to go for it, he’s going to put effort in, damn it. “And, maybe, after... we could see a show. There are a few playing now, so whichever one you’d prefer to see, just tell me.”

“You have a whole day planned, don’t you?” They’re teasing, of course— he knows by the way they sway into his side, gently bump him with their hip. “I would be—“

“That would be exciting! I don’t often get to see shows I don’t perform in.”

Damien turns, astonished, to see Mark right beside them, smiling as though he’s been in the conversation the entire time.

“Mark?” His friend looks— sounds— as frustrated as he feels. “I don’t think he was—“

“Come, now, he wouldn’t leave me out of a _friendly_ outing, would he?” His grin goes a little sharp.

He knows, and he’s doing it on purpose. Damien grits his teeth. “Mark, I need to talk to you. Excuse us, my dear,” he adds, softer, before gripping Mark around the elbow to drag him away.

“Ow— hey, Dames, that— Damien, that hurts!” Mark successfully pulls away when Damien loosens his grip, behind a corner several feet away. “What was that for? I can walk!”

“You know what. What the _hell_ are you doing?” Damien turns on him, face hot with anger.

Mark frowns at him, an innocent look far too exaggerated to be sincere. “What do you mean? I just wanted to tag along! We’re all good friends, aren’t we?”

“ _Bullshit_ , you wanted to tag along. You’ve been doing this for _months_ , Mark,” Damien growls. “Months! Every time I try to be sweet to them: words, actions, anything, you interrupt me. What the _hell_ is your problem?”

The facade immediately falls, and Mark groans. “My problem is the two of you! You’re clearly smitten with each other— I knew about you from letter one, my friend, and they aren’t much better— but you don’t _do_ anything! You don’t take the leap! You just keep circling, and— frankly— it’s exhausting.

“So,” he continues, “I thought it best to show you what would happen if you never actually did. Circling but never closing, never saying what you need to. This is what happens if you play romance safe: nothing!”

Damien simply stares at him for a moment. “You thought the best way to get me to take a chance was... to interrupt every chance I took? Mark,” he starts, straining to keep his volume down, “that’s what I was _just doing_! I was _just_ asking them for time alone! What the _fuck_?”

“You were?”

Damien nods, exasperated.

“Well! It sounds better on paper.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Mark frowns. Seems to actually think. “... In my defense?”

Damien shakes his head.

“Well, then. I should... probably go home,” he concludes, awkwardly. How sweet it is, to see that confidence crumble.

“You should, yes,” Damien says, cheerfully. He pats Mark firmly on the shoulder. “If you feel further need to help me— _don’t_.”

As he walks away, he hears Mark shout, “I did actually help you!”

“You really didn’t,” he calls back. When he finally returns to his friend— who looks a bit concerned by their disappearance— he smiles. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Right.” They glance at his side, then behind him. “Is... he not coming with us, anymore? If he wanted to—“

He reaches out for their hand, and they stop the moment he touches them. “No, he— no, it’s just us. I’m not asking you as a friend, so I think he’d be pretty uncomfortable coming along.”

They laugh. “I don’t know if he knows the meaning of... wait, wait, you—?”

He nods encouragingly in the face of their astonishment.

“You like me?”

That was... not what he expected. “You didn’t _know_?”

“No!” Their free hand comes up to cover their face as they grumble. “I spent all this time flirting but I thought you were just being... you know, Damien!”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nice! Sweet!” They groan. “You were never bothered by it, so I thought you just took it as friendly. I didn’t even think you were flirting back.”

Damien doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry. “My dear. My darling, look at me.” When they lower their hand, eyes wide, he continues, “you are brighter than every last star in the sky, but you are also the most oblivious human being I have ever met.”

They glower at him. It isn’t effective. “Well! What took you so long, then?”

Other than Mark? He shrugs. “I thought you were shy?”

“When have I ever been shy, Damien?”

“Just now, actually.” He dodges their finger poking at his side. “Hey, now, careful or I won’t take you on that date.”

A _date_. It sounds official, and good, and when they bury their face back in their hand, cheeks just darkening over a giddy little smile, he knows it was worth the grief.

Mostly.

(Mark asks about it later. He gets half a crumbled cookie and a glare and calls it good.)

**Author's Note:**

> idk bud i tried but i’m an angst author at heart
> 
> if you want more, hmu @fgfluidity on tumblr


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